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SILENT, BUT DEADLY.

postie

The buck stops here
Staff member
In a field far away from the bustle and noise, where bodies once lay scattered, like broken toys

The birds never sing and the trees will not grow, but the red poppy covers the ground like a carpet of snow

Tis said that the ground is made of soft mud, drenched through and through by dead soldiers blood.

Some were just mere boys barely sixteen, if they had survived, who's to say just what they might have been.

Husbands, sons, brothers, lovers or just friend, all caught up in a vicious circle that never appears to end.

The world it gets older but no Wiser, I'll warrant, men will still be led in to battle caused by some tin pot tyrant

And so it has been since the beginning of time, it just happened that way, there was never a reason or rhyme.

How in this world can there ever be peace, when one half the world has a famine, the other, a feast.

One day mother Earth will call a sudden halt, life as we know it will cease and it will all be mans fault
 
There will always be fields such as you have so vividly discribed Postie. But eventually the final battle will be fought.
 
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